


flowers grow out of my grave

by downthedarkpath



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Getting Together, Love, M/M, Soulmate AU, meet cute, minor hurt/comfort, soft, soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28050630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downthedarkpath/pseuds/downthedarkpath
Summary: He meets his soulmate on a Wednesday. He sees half broken stems, red roses and yarrows, crawling their way across his collarbone. He sees sage and thyme, and a budding sunflower in the centre of his chest.“Hey! Daisy!”
Relationships: George/Dream
Comments: 7
Kudos: 153





	flowers grow out of my grave

**Author's Note:**

> title from [flowers grow out of my grave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=052f16_6K4Y) \- which, whilst being a great song, isnt related at all to this fic other than the flower thing.
> 
> also minor minor minor cw for slight references to blood

There are flowers growing beneath his fingertips.

Daisies, worn pink in the center. Dream tears their petals off and squashes the stems into his cuticles. They grow like mold, and he hates them.

The yellow gold centers crumble beneath his fingertip. He rubs the pollen into his palm, smearing dust into his skin. It burns, but only in the best way.

As soon as the first is dead, a second flower grows. Dream pulls it apart much like the first, lays it to rest in a flower graveyard. A carnation grows next to it, sprouting from beneath the nail on his index finger. He pulls it out by the roots, bloodied and broken. It comes easily.

His hand shakes. He feels no pain, but it still hurts. Deep within himself, his heart breaks. 

He lets it.

* * *

The moon rises early. His soulmate plants a garden across his skin, and Dream spends the evening picking it apart. By the time midnight arrives, he has a collection of massacred flowers sitting next to him, some missing petals, others missing roots. 

His forearms are bloodied and bruised, yet plantlife still grows. He hates it. He almost hates it. 

Dream thinks he could love it.

* * *

He meets his soulmate on a Wednesday. He sees half broken stems, red roses and yarrows, crawling their way across his collarbone. He sees sage and thyme, and a budding sunflower in the centre of his chest.

“Hey! Daisy!”

It takes Dream a moment to realise he’s being spoken to. When he does turn, when he fiddles with the daisies under his fingernails and begins to pull the petals off like it’s instinct now (because it is), when he sees the face in front of him fall, he stops. “Are you talking to me?”

The man nods. He fiddles with one of the rose petals too, but he’s gentle. He tends to it. His flowers bloom effortlessly, beautifully. He smiles like he wouldn’t ever stop. “You have my flowers.”

“I do?”

“Daisies, carnations, morning glories,” he says. He sounds like he can’t breathe. “Do I have yours?”

Dream halts. “Yeah.”

“Then hey, soulmate.”

* * *

He gets his soulmate’s number. George. 

George texts him every morning. He uses lots of flower emojis, like they’re his entire life. He ends each text with a period. Dream doesn’t.

George asks what Dream’s flowers are today. He always wakes up with daisies on his fingers and carnations up his arms, but slowly, sorrel flowers and wide pink roses start to grow across his back. Dream sits up to find thorns in his flesh and petals on his mattress.

He collects them. He stacks them into a glass jar and watches the pile grow. When the jar is full, he begins a new one. 

Eventually, he gives the jars to George. He seems to appreciate it, even the half-molded rotten ones at the very bottom.

* * *

Dream wakes up to find one of his flowers has withered.

The petals crumble at his touch, falling apart like dust beneath his finger. The stem wilts too, bending almost in half.

Somehow, it hurts.

* * *

George starts calling him Daisy. He seems to find it funny. He says it like it’s Dream’s name, and Dream begins to respond to it like it is, too.

The flowers still grow in his fingertips. George starts to grow white roses in his palms, and when they hold hands, the leaves catch on one another. The thorns start to prick Dream’s fingers, but he finds he doesn’t quite mind.

Sometimes, they draw blood, and it funnels up to the petals. It splatters, deep red against white, and George peels the petals off to save them. He presses them into Dream’s hand, and Dream keeps them.

George says things like, “I’m glad I met you,” and “I think I love you.” He says it like he means it. The words plant roots in Dream’s heart, growing blooms into his lungs until he can’t breathe anything except for George.

He never knows how to reply, except to hold George’s fingertips and kiss the top of his collarbone. George understands. Behind each kiss, hydrangeas start to flower.

* * *

The first night that they spend together is quiet. George falls asleep early. Dream blossoms underneath the light of the moon, watches George glow in its celestial beauty. He watches the flowers beneath George’s skin twist and turn. 

Once the sun rises, he sees how they grew.

When George wakes, he kisses Dream with hints of rose and daisy on his lips. Dream holds his hand, curls fingers around his wrist until petals tickle George’s pulse point. 

He takes time in the morning to pick stray petals out of George’s hair. George collects them all and throws them over Dream, like wedding bells in early evenings. They toast with milky coffee, and the sun melts over them, until the sunflower on George’s chest turns to follow it’s gaze.

The days are nice. Dream collects petals and plants his roots. His flowers sprout.

He lets them.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed!
> 
> once again, i dont usually write soulmate aus, but im... idk. maybe i will. people seem to like them, and im considering writing a red string of fate one soon. we'll see!
> 
> thanks for reading <3 let me know what you thought!


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